Chapter Text
0201 hours, Al Quatar District, Kharzari. Present day, 2023
When the dust clears, the blood starts to pulse from Ghost’s chest and all John can think is “not again.”
“Fuck me,” Ghost groans, writhing against the stairs that are no longer stairs.
To his left, Gaz staggers to his feet and shakes the debris from his head.
“You wish,” he says, then, “oh shit.”
It is enough to snap John from the momentary panic that grips him. Panic is a foreign feeling to him, one that he rarely parses, one that never lasts long enough for him to even register it as a blip on his internal radar, but after Soap- well John feels like a different man after Soap.
He is untethered, like a boat with no anchor. Steadily becoming more and more adrift in a sea of unfocused emotions that all seem to center on a whirlpool of anger that just wont seem to quit. He has been able to keep it under control so far, but he find himself more jumpy, less patient and fundamentally changed in some way that he hesitates to name.
To acknowledge it would to be to speak it’s truth.
He exercised earned vengeance in killing Shepherd, but he’s not quite ready to see the abyss staring back at him.
Ghost wheezes out a breath.
“I can’t fuckin’ breath.”
The stairwell is all but destroyed. John can hear shouting somewhere to the south. They need to move. He staggers over to Ghost. A dark bloody stain is growing on the left side of his chest.
It was a simple mission; find and extract the NATO asset from the safehouse. An intel runner with confirmed eyes on a chemical weapons transfer between the Barkov Group and a rogue General, Farouk Zaman. Simple. Easy. Even one man down. Honestly, John could have switched out the names and it wouldn’t have made a difference. Governments collapsed and corrupt men tried to fill the vacuum left behind. Things never changed. It seems surreal when he thinks about it for too long - especially after Soap, which is why he usually doesn’t think about it at all - but the world continues to turn and nothing ever changes. The world tries its best to sink itself into shit over and over, and men like him have to reach in and pull it out.
Every. Fucking. Time.
And the mission had been simple, right up until the point when the RPG had hit in the stairwell. Laswell had warned him the General was well supplied, but the intelligence hadn’t mentioned anti-armour or that they knew they were coming. Ghost had been first order so had borne the brunt of it. John bites down his anger. He focuses his attention on stabilizing Ghost instead.
“Hes been hit through the chest,” says Rains, unhelpfully. He is the asset they’d been sent to retrieve. A 20-something smuggler with deep set eyes and an vaguely eastern European accent. He is wounded too but the hard look in his eyes speaks of a man familiar with the varied sensations of warfare.
“Here,” John kneels down by Ghost’s side. He rips open his jacket to find the wound. The hole is jagged, barely a centimeter, just below his left nipple. The bleeding is not strong enough for Ghost to be in immediate danger of bleeding out, but John has heard enough collapsing lungs to know Ghost will be dead if they can’t get a Medvac. He reaches into his med pack as Ghost struggles to take in air. His breaths become more labored with every passing second. John rips the adhesive backing from the chest seal. He presses it to Ghost’s chest. His breath hitches and then relaxes ever so slightly.
“This will get bad quickly if we don’t get him help,” Rains says, his eyes hard and worried.
John wants to tell him to shut the fuck up.
Gaz is scouting what remains of the stairwell. He gestures toward the southern hallway, where they had just come from.
“Enemies approaching from the south side, sir,” he says, “sounds like multiple footsteps, maybe a squad. Sounds like they're on the street, about 200 meters, maybe closer."
John presses his push-to-talk.
"Command, this is Bravo-0-1. One urgent casualty - shrapnel to chest, compromised lung. Requesting MEDEVAC at grid two-five-niner, echo-november. Marking LZ with smoke. How copy?”
The radio crackles for half a second before Command responds.
"Bravo-0-1, this is Overwatch. Negative on MEDEVAC - airspace is red. Enemy AA active, no safe route inbound. Recommend ground evac or stabilize on-site. Say again, no bird inbound."
“Fuck.” Gaz kicks a pane of glass and it shatters over his boot.
“Steady,” John warns, he presses his push-to-talk. "Copy that. We'll stabilize and move on foot. Inform -”
The radio goes static and then silent. John switches channels but there is nothing.
“Comms are dead,” he says, “no MEDVAC, we’re on our own.”
Anger flares up again from a point deep in his chest.
“I have a car,” Rains says quickly, and its the first helpful thing he’s said since John met him. “Its in the alley out back.”
John nods. He kneels down beside Ghost. He will work out where to go once they get to the car.
"Ghost, you with me?” he says, “Stay with me, mate. We’re getting you out."
Ghost grits his teeth. He nods weakly.
"Next time, I want a heads-up before the fireworks sir,” he croaks out.
“Command must be having a bad day,” Gaz replies. He peers cautiously toward the stairwell entrance and glances at John. "Enemies closing fast Sir - multiple hostiles moving in from the south side. They sound about one minute out, maybe less."
Rains leans against the cracked concrete wall, eyes sharp, weapon raised.
"We need to move,” he says, ”that RPG blast probably gave our position away."
John stares at him for a moment, then he looks over toward the exit.
"Alright. Gaz, you cover the rear -” he says, “I want eyes on the south side. Rains, help me lift Ghost. We move fast, no stops."
Gaz nods grimly, taking position near the stairwell mouth, scanning the shadows.
"Got it. I’ll hold them off if they push."
John ducks underneath Ghost’s arm and carefully lifts him onto his feet. Even with Rain’s help it is an effort after the impact of the RPG. Ghost’s breaths come harsh and ragged.
“Can you take him,” John asks, holding Rain’s gaze. The man nods and there is certainty in his eyes. John nods back and transfers Ghost’s full weight to him. Rains lets out a low huff, knees bending as he hitches up Ghost’s mass, but he does not waver. John readies his rifle and takes the lead down the stairwell.
Kharzari is a small city state on the northern Urzikstan border. Teetering on the knife edge of outright civil war, it is hardly influential. But it is strategically placed along the Caspian sea. The safehouse is an old warehouse, down near the docks. Not particularly safe in John’s opinion but Rains had apparently been hiding out successfully for months. Given the number of warren-like hallways he’s beginning to understand how.
“To the left,” Rains huffs from behind him.
John presses his back to the corner wall, his rifle tight against his chest. The shouts are steadily getting louder, echoing down the corridors behind them. He raises his clenched fist.
He waits half a second, dips low, quick and precise, muzzle leading. He steps forward and sweep the angle with a fluid half-step scanning tight - high, mid, low. Nothing.
“Clear left,” he says, just loud enough for the others to hear. “Stack right.”
The three men fall in behind him.
He turns to Ghost. His face is pale, his eyes drawn but he is still breathing. Barely.
"Almost there mate, just a few more steps to the alley.” He nods at Rains to move forward. “We’re getting you out."
The hallway tightens as they round the corner, boots brushing against the concrete in a careful rhythm. At the end is a heavy metal door, half-shadowed by a flickering ceiling light.
He raises his fist again.
The team halts instantly, weapons raised. There is no sound except for the shouts behind them and the faint creak of settling walls.
He angles his head, studying the door. No movement, no light. He creeps forward, a gloved hand settling on the peeling handle. Gently, he tests it. Unlocked. The latch gives way with a quiet click as he eases it open, just enough to peek through. Cool, sea air whispers in from the early morning outside. The alley is narrow, trash lining the cobble and dirt. He opens it the rest of the way, smooth and slow. No noise.
“Clear,” he says, “move.”
They file out one by one. John first, then Rains and Ghost, finally Gaz pulling rear. The alley is dark, boxed in by brick walls, a busted sodium lamp casts a sick yellow glow.
10 meters to the north sits a white Toyota Corolla. Rains nods in its direction. They move low and fast, weapons close, boots silent over cobble. Somewhere to the north a dog starks barking.
"Keep your eyes up.” He says. “They’ll be sniffin’ this way soon."
Rains passes Ghost to him before fumbling around with the door locks. Ghosts skin is clammy and pale, John can feel his thready, elevated pulse though the vein on his wrist.
“Captain,” Ghost murmurs, “I can’t-.”
“We’ve got you mate,” John says, “just hang on alright.”
He glances over at Gaz who is covering their exit. He looks worried, but focused on his task. Rains finally yanks the back car door open and rushes forward to help John set Ghost down on the back seat.
Ghost coughs as he hits the peeling vinyl, his eyes clamped shut in pain.
He moves to take the driver side seat but Rains is already half in it.
“I know a place we can go,” he says before slamming the door in John’s face. John scowls for half a second. He doesn’t trust the man, but the shouts are getting louder and louder and the hostiles are closing in. Rains revs the car to life and the voices pause for a moment before John can hear the telltale clatter of hostiles moving toward a now-known target.
“We gotta go Sir,” Gaz says, glancing at him with a question in his eyes.
John nods and hops over to the passenger side. He slides in just as Gaz closes the backseat door.
Rains barely waits for the doors to close before he accelerates forward, past the warehouse exit and speeds toward the end of the alleyway.
“You sure about this place?” John asks.
“Its a clinic,” Rains says breathless as he yanks the jeep out into the street with a sharp screech, “north-northwest, outskirts of a village called Al-Hafir. About 15 minutes if we keep moving.”
He glances back at Ghost in the backseat.
“Hes got about that by the looks of him.”
John gives him a dubious look as they race through the streets. Rains is a chaotic driver but he appears to be putting ample space between them and the hostiles.
“Gaz, keep an eye out the rear. “ John says, scanning the streets ahead. “They might come hunting.”
He turns to Rains.
“I doubt some village clinic can help him,” he says. He starts shuffling through channels on his comms. It’s still dark. He give the black plastic a frustrated whack which does nothing and just make him angrier.
Ghost wheezes.
“Its MSF,” Rains insists, “one of their primary health clinics, couple of doctors, I’ve went there when I had this.”
He takes one hand off the steering wheel and pulls up the bottom edge of his t-shit to reveal a gnarly looking scar. A knife wound by the looks of it and a fresh one. The car veers to the right nearly hitting a parked pickup as Rains fumbles to pull his shirt back down.
John steadies it with a sharp yank on the steering wheel.
“Focus,” he grinds out.
“It might be the only option,” Gaz chimes in from the back seat.
John glances back. Gaz is pressing down on Ghost’s unnaturally pale chest with one hand. The other hand is white-knuckled gripped around his rifle.
“We’re not typically welcome at not-for-profit outfits,” John says, running through other possible options. Any Medvac is uncertain if the airspace is hot, besides the comms are still down. Laswell had warned him about this happening. He is still annoyed about the surprise RPG, but in retrospect it’s not that much of a surprise. He glances to the side as they speed under a bridge. He doesn’t think they’re being pursued, but he also didn’t think the were about to get blown up.
“They’re doctors without borders,” Rains continues, as if using English will convince him, “medical neutrality. Besides, if we go in quiet less chance of Zaman retaliating.”
It crosses John’s mind that Rains’ motivation may be less about saving Ghost’s life and more about saving his own hind. He turns sharply to catch the man’s gaze.
“Besides Doc Purcell’s ex-military, she won’t turn you away.”
John’s brain blanks for just a moment. It is as rare an occurrence as the sensation of panic, but the name seems so improbable in that particular moment. Yet, its attached to both the words ‘doctors without borders’ and ‘ex-military’ so its too much of a coincidence for it not to be who he thinks it is. He wonders for a moment how in hell she ended up out here, smack bang in the middle of a semi-active warzone, but then he remembers it’s Kelli Purcell he’s thinking about and it just kind of makes sense.
“Kelli Purcell?” Gaz says behind them.
Rains nods.
“You know her,” he says, surprised, glancing back and looking hopeful, as if this is a good thing, which really, it is because Ghost is sounding more dead by the moment.
“The one that got away.”
Ghost’s laugh is wet and wheezing and John wants to smack him over the head.
“Save your breath,” he snaps before turning back to peer out at the road ahead of them. They are still under active threat and he doesn't need the distractions. He can feel Rains glancing at him.
When he says nothing Gaz fills the silence.
“An old colleague of the Captains,” he explains.
Rains is wise enough to simply nod and not ask the questions that John knows for certain he wants to ask. Gaz is mercifully too professional to say anything else and Ghost is still recovering from his earlier quote-unquote joke.
Ghost is wrong anyway.
Kelli Purcell is certainly not the one that got away. That would imply there was something there to begin with, but he knows the lads have always been curious about that particular relationship, ever since Soap spilled the beans on Zanzibar, and Ghost is dying so he gives him a pass.
It crosses his mind that she might not want to see him again, but its the only option he's got, and if anyone can save Ghost’s life it’s her.
He turns to looks at Rains again.
“You get us there, we’ll owe you one. Screw it up, we’ll all go under.”